The Howling of Wolves
by LD 1449
Summary: A series of unrelated AU oneshots focusing on various characters throughout the books
1. Watcher on the Wall

I don't own A song of Ice and Fire, or Game of Thrones, they belong to George R.R Martin

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><p>Its warm out today...a southerner would still say its freezing...it is. But the winter's touch is a soft caress of a lovers hand across his cheek rather than the harsh slap of cold, bony fingers.<p>

The Wall has lifted him, lifted him so high he could see farther than anyone else could hope to. It was warm out today...the haze of fog was gone now for this brief few hours that spanned mid day. It let him see, out far beyond, to the great White Tree, to the leagues and leagues of dark woodland that made of the haunted forest. Perhaps- he fancied -he could see so far as to the Fist.

Yes, even to that wretched cleft of mountain, turned fortress where his brothers...his men now...all fought and died for the first time in six thousand years against the foe they'd been created to combat against.

They were still out there, so many of them. More than he'd ever dreamed. They brought with them a fell cold that froze men in their tracks, their strength inhuman. They killed men, only to bring them back, every death adding to their number and decreasing theirs.

White walkers.

The armies of Westeros, what few men remained after the sheer _slaughter_ that had ripped apart, and drained the strength of all seven kingdoms had been marshaled and marched north.

But men didn't matter, the living could not fight against the dead...they needed fire, they needed weapons of _dragon glass_ one arrow of every hundred, one dagger shared between ten men would never suffice...could never suffice. Not when the arrows missed, when the dagger shattered, when the fires burnt out, or worse yet, the tinder was so wet they could not light them at all.

They could not pass the wall. Old magic was here Melissandre assured, but every day, with the encroaching cold...with the fingers of winter tugging more insistently with each passing hour the magics would fade and then...then they would see the Long Night again.

His breath fogged in front of his mouth and Jon found his hand vanishing into Ghost's fur. The ever silent wolf leaned into his touch, sitting, he was almost to Jon's chest. He might yet grow more. The Dire Wolf was a fearsome beast.

He heard their footsteps coming. He didn't even have to turn to know they were.

"Your Grace." He greeted courteously, turning around. They said courtesy was a lady's armor. Jon had learned it could fit men just as well. He turned and found himself staring at none other than the last Targaryens. Daenerys and Aegon, Daughter of Aerys and son of Rhaegar respectively.

Aegon's face was solemn and grim, he looked at him as though he was about to receive or give ill news. He was standing there in the white robe of his aunt's Queens Guard. Unlike the others, though he would be allowed to marry. As they stood now...the Targaryen's numbered only...two.

Daenerys, her's was the face of a woman trying to hold together a rapidly crumbling heart in the weak grip of desperate hope.

"Jon..." For all her sadness, her voice was steady, every bit the queen standing there in her white lion pelt, her silver hair whipping in the wind. A few strands brushed across her face.

"Your Grace should leave now while its warm...it won't be possible for you to fly from this place in a few more hours." He cut her off quickly, raising his voice to carry over what he knew she would say.

"Come with us." She continued on, just as stubbornly, demanding what she'd been demanding since she'd arrived...since it became apparent that they would loose here.

He answered as well as he'd always answered. "My place is here."

"The. Wall. Will. Fall. Jon." She punched out every word, as though trying to hammer it into his skull. "The Night's watch, all of your men are going to die here unless you leave this place."

Jon drew himself up, standing straighter, the black of his clothes a sharp contrast to the white of the snow and Ghost's fur. He was a full head taller than her, and half a head taller than Aegon as well.

Must be the Stark in him.

"_Night gathers, and now my watch begins." _He swears the words again, watching her face fall, watches as Aegon averts his eyes. "_It shall not **end-**"_The word is delivered like a blow._ "-until my **death**. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear **no crowns** and win no glory." _The hope fades ever more quickly. And he sees her heart crumbling before his eyes. He continues speaking. "_I shall **live** and **die** at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher **on the walls**. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and **all nights to come.**"_

"That is my vow your grace." He finishes after a moment of lengthy silence. "And I will keep it."

She looks down, and she no longer sees the queen, but a small girl, one who had to grow too fast and he can relate to that. Even so, his face is as cold as the ice beneath their feet.

"You and Aegon are the last family I have left Jon..."

"I do not know you well Jon." Aegon speaks up for the first time since this exchange began. "But I wish to have the opportunity...if our father was alive he would want us to stand side by side as a family."

Jon stared at them, his face neither showing appreciation nor displeasure.

Danny stepped forward her pale, warm hands cupping his cheeks, tilting his head down to look at her.

"Jon...you are a Targaryen...please come with us..."

Finally he spoke; his hands rising to gently, but firmly, draw her hands away from his face. For the briefest of instants his eyes softened, that impenetrable wall of ice melting away for only a moment before it reasserted itself when he politely kissed her hand.

"Your grace is kind. Your love is received gladly, and returned just so...but I have a Father. His name is Eddard Stark. Lord of Winterfell. Warden of the North. Son of Rickard Stark. My mother is the woman he promised to speak to me about when next we meet. I will wait patiently for that day."

"You're going to die."

"I already did once." He wasn't sure whether to smile of frown. Neither was she for that matter.

She reached up again, this time bringing his head down so she could kiss the crown of dark curls atop his head. "I do not know." She muttered against him. "If you are the greatest of us...or the most foolish."

He pulled away, looking down at her face again, the streak of tears was there, but these were fading things now. There was a gentle smile on her face.

It was said she was the most beautiful woman in Westeros, he might have agreed. But his vision of beauty was different from most:the silver hair was replaced by fire, her teeth just as white but slightly more crooked, her eyes no longer amethyst but jade, her angular face rounder.

Most would claim Jon Snow knew nothing of Beauty.

Finally she stepped back. No mater how fiercely the dragon flapped its wings or breathed its fiery wrath...the wall would not move to it.

"I'll come back..." She promised...I will sail for Valyria, I will pull every ore and stone from the ground for the weapons and bring back Khalasar, Unsullied, Mercenaries from Pentos, Bravos, I will call all the Kingdoms for more armies." She promised and Jon knew she meant every word. "I will be back Jon."

He nodded, and the White Queen immediately left the Black Crow.

Jon breathed through his nostrils, realizing it was colder now.

He turned back to the sight beyond the wall.

The Fog was creeping back.

Winter was coming.

And he would be right here to greet it with Ghost at his side.

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><p>Hey readers. I kinda made this one shot because I'm sick of most of the stories for this genre. 50 percent belong in some way shape or form to Sansa, (Don't hate her but not really getting the fixation writersreaders seem to have with her either)

The few that involve Robb Stark revolve around him with Jeyne Westerling, (Again, not a hater but when 9 out of the 10 is about Jeyne and him and the other is either a Yaoi or just so bad you can't look at it without your eyes bleeding it gets irritating. Don't people realize all the potential that can be put into a story by having Robb Stark mary someone else? Anybody else? Think of Rob with Arianne Martell, or Margary Tyrell, or Asha Greyjoy.

Worse yet the few with Jon Snow are either Yaoi, borderline Incest (Arya/Sansa pairing), Outright Incest (Daenerys) or some other form of weird stuff. Ygritte doesn't even appear in the character selection roster, what's up with that?

Not only that, in most fics they find some way to wheedle Jon out of his Vows to the Night's watch so he can get his "Happily ever after" Practically destroying what I find best about the character that is "Jon" which is a man who, in seeking to emulate his father and his honorable ways not only succeeds but becomes a better man than his father (Ned) was. So Jon snow turning around and rationalizing his way out of his vows doesn't fit him in my opinion at all.

And whenever Danny shows up in a fic everyone in it is practically throwing themselves at her feet. I can respect some of the things she's done like most characters, but like most characters I can also say she's been a bit of an idiot in some instances so I'm not seeing the fixation on her and the apparent Hero Worship fans have for her

So yea, I'm starting this series of Oneshots (Unrelated unless expressly stated otherwise) so I can put some of my own little ideas down for this unbelievably great universe George Martin has created.


	2. Her sword and shield

It all happened so fast.

Danny was no stranger to being on the receiving end of violence. She'd endured her brother's rage when they were younger, she'd survived the attack when she stepped out of the House of the Undying, more recently she'd been rescued from the vengeful Mero by Sir Barristan. Or as she'd known him at the time, Arstan White Beard.

Even so, nothing had ever come this close.

There'd been six of them. Sons of the harpy. They emerged as she'd been eying a beautiful jade necklace from a vendor's stall. The vendor had been trying to give it to her as a gift. She'd been trying to assure him she was willing to pay for the merchandise.

Six...six dressed in common clothing. They'd blended seamlessly with the people of Meereen. Their daggers came out and the murder had been in their eyes already. They visualized it, savored it even.

Then Sir Barristan was there.

He was just as fast as he'd been that day against Mero. Faster even, despite the weight of his armor, and his sword cut through the the attackers flesh as easily as it cut through air.

But there were six of them in that crowd, and where Sir Barristan had needed to maneuver his blade to avoid striking the innocent that rushed to get away, and had needed to pause to check if this truly was his enemy and not some unfortunate soul who'd stumbled into the bazaar at the wrong time, the assassins had no such reservations.

They were wheat to the scythe of his sword, regardless.

He'd cut them all down. Chests were carved open, bellies cut wide, hands and limbs severed. Sir Barristan's sword found their flesh as though it had already been there from the beginning.

Then, as the last fell, one who was not entirely dead reached up, his dagger still clutched firmly in his hand as he thrust it down harshly on Barristan's foot.

She never knew such a seemingly simple wound could bleed so much.

She never realized she could scream so loud. It was as though her lungs had made up for Barristan's simple grunt of pain.

She had shouted and her blood riders came in an instant, charging into the bazaar on horseback, damn near trampling the citizens before they took her and Sir Barristan back to the palace.

That was hours ago. Hours that she's been spending tripling all of her previous efforts to bring down the Sons of the Harpy. Her unsullied now marched through the streets in groups of ten and twenty, a reward now sits at four times its previous number for any information that would lead to the Sons.

Now she marches up the stairs, pushing the doors open, and there she finds Sir Barristan, laying on his bed, his injured foot raised on a mound of cushions as he reads a book.

He looks up at her entrance, somewhat startled, he immediately sets the book aside and moves to straighten his previously slouched form. "Your Grace I-"

Danny rushes forward a little, her hands held up. "No, no please don't rise, its quite alright Sir Barristan."

He relaxes and Danny steps forward, inspecting the bandages over his foot with her eyes, an angry splotch of red is at the very center of the appendage.

"This is all my fault." She laments.

"Your Grace troubles herself needlessly." He reassures, "This is not the worst injury I've received. In a week or two I will be walking easily again. The blade did not break bone nor cut a vein."

"This was needless." She argues. "Everyone told me not to go out, to stay in the palace and I-"

"A queen's palace should be her refuge-" Barristan interrupts gently. "-not her prison. If her Grace wishes to walk out amongst the city then she will walk out amongst the city and the Queensguard will be at their rightful place, as her sword and shield as she does so."

Danny closes her mouth. Ser Barristan is undoubtedly the most loyal of her followers right now. She has little doubt that he would willingly take a dozen more wounds, each more grievous than the last for her sake. Then take a dozen more and do it all over again if he had to.

This did not mean that she liked him getting hurt.

Nor did she find herself at times, at all worthy of his devotion.

She decides to pull the conversation away from this dark topic. She marches over to a nearby chair and pulls it onto his bedside. "What do you read?"

He looks startled, glancing down at the book as he chuckles. "Oh, this old thing. One of the few things I'd kept from my dismissal of the Kingsguard. 'Heroes of Westeros.'"

"Folk tales?" She was genuinely surprised. "You never struck me as the type Sir."

"Believe it or not, I was a boy once too Your grace." He smiles gently and she smiles back. "My father gave me this book as a gift. It has the stories and ballads of many great Heroes of the seven Kingdoms."

"Does it have The Dragonknight?" She asks, the thought bubbling up from her throat with enthusiasm. "Viserys..." She pauses for half a heartbeat, then continues. "Viserys never learned the tale's ending. So I never was able to learn it either."

"Well then that's just something that's going to have to be remedied Your Grace." He says good naturedly, and Danny knows that half of this ease he's has today is because of whatever draught he's been given for the pain.

He begins turning pages his eyes scanning them for just a scant few seconds before turning to the next.

"Ahh." He finds the page, and Danny feels herself leaning forward like an eager child despite herself.

Before he begins though he looks to her his old formality returning. "Your Grace, are you certain there are no other duties you need attend today? I would be remiss should you feel the need to sit and listen to an old man read children's tales if there is some other-"

"Sir Barristan." She cuts him off, in a tone that brooked no argument. "You have saved my life. And as such I say that there is nothing more important today than my sitting here and listening to you read me the tale of the Dragonknight. Not even another petition to reopen the fighting pits."

Baristan smiles, a chuckle on his lips.

"Now as your queen." She smiles back. "I demand that you begin."

"As my queen commands." He bows his head, glad to follow the order, and moves his eyes back down to the book when he seems to remember something. "Ahh." He hmms before he looks to the small table at the other side of his bed. "It almost slipped my mind."

Danny leans forward, curious.

"The Queensguard may also serve another purpose-" He says, pulling back from the table, his free hand clenched around something.

As he stretches that hand out, his fingers uncurl and Daenerys finds herself gasping.

The Jade necklace she's sought from the merchant's stall rests in Sir Barristan's palm.

The Knight smiles at his Queens reaction. "-we can also carry things her Grace might forget if her mind is occupied."

He places the necklace in her hand, and Danny feels her eyes well up with the tears. She wants to hug him. But she knows it would only make him uncomfortable. To Sir Barristan, there must always be a distance between the lord and his or her subject. She'll cross that line if she indulges right now.

Instead she turns around, putting the necklace back in his hand as she pulls her hair aside. "Could you tie it Sir?" She asks, and after a moment she feels the cut jade rest at her chest, and Barristan's calloused fingers finish with the clasp at the back of her neck.

She looks down, admiring the newest piece of jewelry before she sits comfortably. A smile is on her lips as the sun filters in from the outside and the head of her Queensguard rests on his bed. "You may begin" she says, imperiously and Sir Barristant obediently does.

And as she's sitting there, with a smile on her face, a jade necklace round her neck, and with Sir Barristan's voice reading the ballad of the Dragonknight, Daenerys comes to a realization.

She knows who her father is, what he did, the stories of him.

And that even knowing all of that, knowing all the misfortune he brought onto others, including her siblings and herself that she had never wished for a different sire.

Except for that day.

That day; with an act of bravery, a piece of jewelery and a child's story, she wished wholeheartedly that if she were to have a father today, that he would be entirely like Sir Barristan Selmy 'The Bold'.

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><p>Why aren't there more Barristan Selmy fics out there?<p>

Have we all forgotten this bad ass character? This is probably the best swordsman in the book series besides Jamie Lannister, and he's knocking on like what? Mid sixties?

He beat a Mercenary captain with a walking stick, a freakin walking stick! This guy deserves some more love from the fans.

So here's my little hats off to Sir Barristan Selmy, an awesome character in a book series made up of awesome characters.


	3. AzorAhai Reborn

He does not trust her. His eyes always follow her, always suspicious, always uneasy this boy commander. She stands at the side of her Lord Stannis, Azhor Ahai reborn as the Lord Snow enters this room to see them for the first time since his inauguration just a few hours past.

His weapons are gone. His sword of fine Valyrian steel is even now being admired by one of her lord's guards just outside.

But his eyes are still sharp, he is not unarmed, this boy commander.

Young, naive...true.

When he speaks to Her Lord Stannis she can almost hear this boy commander's heart thumping in his chest. He is so nervous. Her eyes see him working his jaw, watches his throat moving as he swallows, notes as he licks his lips, fidgets beneath his black cloak working some piece of it between his thumb and forefinger.

But still, his voice is strong, clear, and he does not fear rebuking her lord when he makes his demands. Her lord grinds his teeth, furious, angry, glaring. And there this boy commander stands, as implacable as winter, as immovable as a Wierwood tree before the winds of the Stormlord.

Some things he grants of course, lodging for the King's men some food, there is much that he does give, but it is much and more that he holds back.

He is dismissed, as brusquely as he was summoned. She expects anger, annoyance, impatience. Few can weather her lords graces without some of those crossing over their features, no matter how well they hide it, her eyes will see.

But the boy is calm, almost serene. He bows his head. And all she sees in his gaze is that same somber temperance since the start as he speaks. "Your Grace."

Such a sad little thing he is, such a young thing.

Which makes it so much more impressive really.

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><p>He is burning.<p>

He is burning and he is screaming.

He howls and claws, and even the simplest beast knows how to battle when held in Rholor's wrath.

He fights her, thrashes against her hold with limbs he never even knew he had. She struggles, her magic is like fire beneath her skin, her bones are rods of heated iron, her blood boils. It hurts. Her breathing is getting heavier, she's trying to force down a breath that's too cold. Trying to fill lungs that are gripped by smoke.

Then it is gone, in an instant the magic fades, the fire beneath her skin is quenched and the cold of the north sinks into her flesh. Its like knives cutting through her flesh. Its so cold...so very cold. Her magic is so strong here but she's never felt so far from Rholor's warmth. Its all she can do to keep herself from falling before her magic returns to her.

Later on she would steal a moment away from prying eyes, to gather herself, her legs are shaking beneath her dress, her arms quake so badly she has to keep them gripped tightly infront of her.

Her Lord Stannis is angry...but she only feels gratitude. When she looks down from their dais to where the Young Lord Commander sits upon his horse with his retinue, she finds his eyes on them as well. Though it should be impossible for anyone to tell, she knows his eyes lay on her, not on Her Lord Stannis.

Suspicious, uneasy, he does not trust her.

So young, so naive..true.

She does not want his trust...she does not need it.

Only his help is required.

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><p>Slynt's head rolls.<p>

It is a clean stroke, and hot blood melts the snow beneath them. The man soils himself as dead men are wont to do and she find's herself smiling as the men curse and complain at the stench.

She needs no magic to sense the energy brimming through castle black now. Stewards and workers and rangers and knights and squires and wild-lings, what few are actually within the castle, all emerge from their holes, peering out to the scene.

Many doubted the lord commander truly had it in him.

She most of all, truth be told.

Her Lord enters, grunting as he threw off his heavy cloak as the warmth of the room sinks into his bones. The warmth of the fire in the hearth.

"You approve." She comments, turning her eyes onto him.

Her lord pauses, eying her for a moment before he sits down infront of the map laid out across the table. "Slynt was an asp. Should have been removed from duty long ago. To outright refuse to obey a command from his commander. The boy was right to take his head."

She chuckles, somewhere low in her throat and the sound echoes through the room. "Normally Your Grace would merely see it as Lord Snow fulfilling his duty. Hardly something worth your approval."

"Do you have purpose?" He barks, his thin patience already frayed. Her lord liked to cut to the heart of things. "Or do you enjoy pointless speculation?"

She smiles. "Merely commenting on the fact that I agree Your Grace. Lord Snow did well."

"Hn." He grunts. "He did what he had to."

_Yes. And that is what we need now. A man that will do what he must._

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><p>They stand before the fire, man and woman, to be joined by the blessed light of Rholor.<p>

It is Snow's hand on Alys' arm, it is Snow delivering her.

It is Snow eying her as she prays, eyes like shards of cold ice.

A girl on the back of a dying horse. She'd said, and so it had been.

It was just the wrong girl.

And despite that here he stood, dangerously close to breaking the most important oath his black brothers hold hear.

The Night's Watch takes no part.

And he does so without hesitation. A Knight in black.

He is not sycophantic Queen Selyse, or her knights, nor is he bound, equal parts necessity equal parts curiosity as his Grace King Stannis. He is Jon Snow, Lord commander of the Nights Watch, son of Winterfell.

He does not keep the faith of Rholor, he holds true to the Trees. To the old gods. The Gods of Winter and old magic.

And so he has no qualms about telling her what he thinks of her mistake.

He does not shout. He does not curse or grind his teeth and sneer. But whatever tentative trust he held is gone now.

Now; when she needs him to trust in her sight and her words more than ever.

_Daggers in the Night_

Death all around him.

Because _The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors._

They kiss, and leap into the fire. Her ruby glows as she shields them from the burning kiss of Rholor, they pass through unharmed.

She turns in time to see this Knight in Black marching off to speak to his Brothers, no doubt regarding his stance to allow the Wildling called Tormund through the wall with all his men.

* * *

><p>"Let them die." Selyse says.<p>

She does not turn from the window. She does not need to. She can already see his face, carved from stone and ice, where King Stanis would be iron and steel. They are not so unlike eachother as they would wish to believe.

Perhaps that's why both men mislike the queen so much.

_Let them die_ She says. As if it could ever be that simple for him. As if it would be that simple for anyone in command who has seen the dead walk again.

She knows where Jon's mad desperation to get as many as he can get on this side of the wall stems. She understands. The dead rise, caring not if they were child, woman man or wizened crone. They will rise with the strength to slay. Every soul beyond the wall is one more pitted against the Night's watch, against Rhollor.

She does not speak as they go back and forth, merely listens. Hoping that Selyse' taciturn manner will be enough to dissuade the Lord Commander from venturing out.

A fools hope, she knows.

She has never met Eddard Stark, but from what she's heard, she already knows Snow is too much his father's son for such a small thing as a haughty queen's barbed tongue to dissuade him.

But still she hopes.

"How noble of you." She hears Selyse sneer at the notion of Jon leading the ranging himself. "Perhaps now we'll have a more prudent lord Commander that will listen to reason."

That is unfair, she thinks but holds her tongue all the same as she turns. Selyse will listen to her, but she needs Jon to listen to Selyse, or at least, listen to the worst opinions his men can hold of him.

And the queen does truly hold the worst opinion of him.

But he shrugs it off. Stone and Ice is his skin and his facade. The queen attends her daughter, does not look to him. And Melisandre is somewhat grateful for that. The Lord Commander's eyes are colder than the Others and though a healthy does of fear would do Selyse well, she would not want such dirrected at Snow.

When the conversation turns to Val, the wildling princess that is no princess at all, even she can attest to becoming irritated by Selyse's pretentiousness.

But the same Stone and Ice greet them as before and with a deftness that's rather surprising Jon speaks without saying anything, and Selyse is about as close to marrying Val to her favored Knight as she was when the conversation began.

And she has to smile at that.

_He just pulled the entire Mule and the Wagon behind it over their heads and they don't even realize it._

When he leaves, intent on his purpose, she follows.

She hopes. Hopes as much as she'll allow herself. But she knows he will not listen.

She's never wished her predictions to be wrong before now.

* * *

><p>She wakes to the roar of a thousand wildlings.<p>

Its a queer thing as she lies down in her bed, eyes staring at the ceiling, dumfounded as sound barrels through her room like a charging van of horses.

They're _roaring_ out there. And for half a heartbeat she fears the wildlings have decided to take the castle. But this is not the sound of battle. This is not the clash of steel against steel, the cries of injured and dying. This is a rallying cry.

She stands swiftly, pulling on her robe as she marches to the window and she sees Jon there, standing before almost every fighting man within Castle Black and they _roar_ for him.

She runs to the hearth-fire, still smoldering within her chambers and quickly sets it ablaze, peering into its depths for the answers she seeks.

And finds Snow. Snow and Snow surrounded by grinning skulls, coming every closer, too close, too fast.

_Dagger's in the Night_

* * *

><p>He lies cold and still...<p>

She stands, fire beneath her skin and hands wet with his blood.

The men rush into the dining hall. Grenn and Pyp throwing whatever mess was on the table onto the floor as they place John on its surface. They're screaming. Shouting for someone to get a Maester, to get anything and more and more black brothers run this way and that way, frightened and panicked. Others, the strong ones, with what little men remain to her and at least one giant stand guard over the mutineers.

So foolish...to slay the best of them because of fear.

Foolish fear.

The fear of change.

Life is change. The night's watch stood unmoving and unchanging for a thousand years, and it merely died a slow, miserable death. Where now its long noble history is all but overshadowed by the black souls and dark shadows cast by its villainous, wretched recruits of this day and age.

She walks to him, making her way through the throng. The men move past her, as though actively trying to ignore her, as though their eyes for some reason had blinded their minds to whom exactly was standing in their midst as they rushed to try and find aid for their Lord Commander.

She brings her hand up, and fire blazes beneath her skin ad she runs her fingers through his black cloak.

Still wet, still bleeding.

He is cold, cold and stiff and _dead_. Her eyes say.

_But no, Jon Snow. No you cannot die...Rholor Still needs you here._

She hears Pyp, crying, sobbing, begging any god that will listen and Jon for him to wake up.

"I promise, I'll stop makin the stupid jokes about the Long Barrow and about you and Val, and about everything else-oh seven..."

She does not listen to the rest of his words, her eyes are fixed on Jon as men haul in wood to build up the fire in the hearth, smoke billows up to the ceiling, escaping the cavernous chimney above the hearth.

She leans down.

His face is cold, cold and stiff and _dead._

No. Not dead

Her lips ghost over his own, a prayer murmured to the God between the two of them as she _breathes._

Come back Jon Snow.

The jewel at the nape of her neck glows, and it burns her at the touch. Fire scorches her skin, and boils her blood.

She _breathes_

Come back Jon Snow.

Come back and be _reborn_.

The men have taken note of her now, stopping and staring, slack jawed. The Wildlings outside have been roused and they shout for the heads of the mutineers. No men tolerated betrayers.

But she ignores them, and feels her self burning, fires coil up her arms, wrap around her throat.

She will be consumed, she will burn.

_She breathes._

And then he breathes with her.

She holds him down, he struggles, but his strength is nil, spent, he gasps and flails like a drowning man come to the surface and her jewel glows, burning between them like a glowing, bloody star.

He grabs it tightly.

And suddenly they were both burning, the flames swallowing them up, consuming them, devouring them.

Too much

It is too much!

She does not hear the men shout, only feels herself overcome by darkness.

And she prays when it comes for her, prays fervently as she falls.

Because it is Dark.

And the night is dark and full of terrors.

* * *

><p>Another one shot around Jon Snow. :P<p>

I decided to do this from Melisandre's perspective because I do find her to be an interesting character and the dynamics between her and Jon have always been a bit peculiar in my opinion.

I do believe that Jon Snow is "Azor Ahai" because none of the other candidates really fit in my eyes. Not because they don't meet the prerequisites but because sheer circumstance and distance are gonna prevent them from doing anything when the time comes.

Danny and Victarion are clear across the other side of the world, with their own problems to deal with, not revolved around stopping a bunch of Zombie commanding Liches. Stannis has more than enough on his plate just trying to tackle House Bolton in the middle of winter and besides that I really don't believe he is Azor Ahai. He's the one that most loosely fits the prerequisites of the prophecy and he is, for better or worse, an exclusively secondary character. He doesn't have a POV chapter to him. Everything Stannis has been involved in has been shown through the eyes of another character. Davos, Melisandre, Asha, Catelyn. I don't think a strictly secondary character is gonna be relegated to the role of "Savior"

So yea, my money's on Jon. And I'm praying to Rhollor (Rollo as the north mountain men call him lol) the seven, the many faced god ect ect that Jon survives his little Julius Cesar reenactment and comes out ontop.

Either way this might be a Oneshot piece that I may decide to extend at a later date, but not for a little bit since I'm currently toying with an idea in my head revolving around Robb Stark. There are several ideas revolving around him and one of either, Asha Greyjoy, Arianne Martell or Margery Tyrell. I haven't decided on which one yet but once I decide which storyline appeals more I'll start jotting it down.


	4. Smart

A days hard ride has made the saddle chafe, the stink of sweat, shit and horse smacked into his face as he bore his way into Harrenhall.

The men bow and step out of the way, hailing "Milord of Lannister." as he pulls to a halt in the courtyard.

He sighs, breathing roughly through his nostrils before Greagor Clegane catches his eye.

He turns his horse, Lance, marching the beast closer, and the stink of piss and shit greet his nostrils, he tightens his lips in distaste as the Mountain turns to face him.

"What's all this?" He asks, dismounting.

"We weren't expecting you until tomorrow My lord Tywin." The mountain rumbles, bowing his head.

He laughs, his other foot finally reaching the ground. "Evidently not." Better that men didn't expect him. He'd arrived early for that specific reason. That way he could see how sloppy they really were.

He pulls his gloves free, stepping up to the rickety fence that holds at least three dozen men and women. "Why are these prisoners not in their cells?"

"The cells are overflowing my lord."

Of course they are. Nothing was ever ideal.

"It's not like they'll be here long-" A soldier says, some lowborn from Lannisport by the sound of him. Stupid by the sound of him too. "Don't need no permanent place." The man comments as he makes his way around the fences. "After we're done interrogatin em we usually jus-" He gestures to the stockades, to the hang man's noose just over the next wall.

Tywin fights the urge to sigh in frustration. Idiots. This was no longer an interrogation it was simple killing of a bunch of stupid people who, very apparently to anyone with half a mind in their skulls, obviously knew nothing.

"Are we so well manned-" He grunts. "That we can afford to discard, able young bodies and skilled laborers?"

The soldier stares stupidly at him.

He walks forward, ignoring the torturer as he looks at his latest victim, black hair, a strong build. The boy could likely kill half the men guarding him if he had a weapon.

"You." He calls, bringing the boy's eyes up to him. Blue eyes, he noted. "You have a trade?"

He swallows, nervous. "Smith, milord."

A smith! He looks to the torturer, and to the soldier, and they nervously, stupidly, avert their eyes, with nothing to say.

The soldier soon enough decides to take his embarrassment out on the nearest prisoner. "What're you lookin at?" He smacks the wood railings with his stick, drawing his sword. "Kneel!" He says, as the prisoner backs away.

And Tywin notices something that makes him draw a little closer.

Delicate features, hint of a slim waist beneath the heavy clothes.

He steps forward.

"Kneel. Or I'll cut your lungs out boy."

"You'll do no such thing." He tells the stupid soldier. "This one is a girl. You idiot." He decides to add, for good measure.

He looks at the girl, dirty face, messy hair. "Dressed as a boy? Why?"

He half expects the answer she gives. "Safest way to travel my lord." And even though he half expected it, its still impressive.

"Smart." He complements. "Which is more than I can say for this lot." He pushes away from the railings. "Get these prisoners to work." He says over his shoulder, beginning to leave.

Still, he half pauses, thinking. "Bring the girl. I need a new cupbearer. Better to be serving drinks than raped in the barracks.

He did just break her secret after all.

* * *

><p>"The Starks have over extended their lines." Reginald says, circling the table from the hearth to his seat. "Now that summer's over they'll have a hard time keeping their men and horses fed."<p>

He nearly scoffs. "The Starks understand Winter better than we ever will. The Cold won't beat them." Our spies report growing discontent amongst the northern lords." Someone else says. "They want to return home and gather up the harvests; before the crops turn."

Another idiot.

"I'm sure if those same spies snuck into our camps they'd report growing discontent amongst the _southern _lords." Wars effects went both ways Don't they realize that? He half wishes Kevan to arrive sooner. At least he had a half decent head on his shoulders. "This is war! No one's content." He spells it out for them.

He looks around the table. Five men weary and tired from a hard days ride and none with a single useful thought in their heads. The blasted cupbearer seems to be paying more attention than they are and she's actually occupied with something.

"We've underestimated the Stark boy for too long." He says, though its mostly to himself. Thinking aloud. " He's got a good mind for warfare, his men worship him. As long as he keeps winning battles they'll keep proclaiming him _King in the North._"

He takes a breath, and now he's addressing these five men before him. "We've been waiting for him to _**fail.**_ He is not going to _**fail**_. Not without our help."

And they keep staring at each other like someone besides them should have the answer. He fights the urge to curl his lips at the sight of them, especially Reginald, chewing on some half cold piece of chicken and staring at the table like some slack-jawed lack-wit.

His wise council...

"How do we stop him!" Even if they're going to give him a stupid answer it'll be better than their completely dimwitted silence.

"We've worked all through the night my lord. Perhaps we'd profit from some sleep."

And his patience snaps, like an over-pulled tether.

"Yes I think you would Reginald." He all but barks. And immediately the idiot realizes he's crossed a line. And just incase his anger is in any way unclear- "And because you're my cousin I might even let you _**wake**_ from that sleep."

Still staring like a fool.

"Go." He snaps again. "I'm sure your wife must miss you."

Reginald straightens answering carefully. "My wife is in Lannisport."

"Well then you'd better start riding." He answers drily. Let the sleepy fool return home with his tail between his legs. He wont take his men, and he wont take his money either. He's not _**that**_ much of a fool. It'll be a headache to reorganize his division and split them up amongst the other lords but its better than having this imbecile breathing the same air as any of them.

He's still sitting. Still staring.

"Go before I change my mind and send her back your head." Him running Lannisport is not an enticing idea come to think of it. A beheading might be equall parts satisfactory and beneficial depending on his successor.

He stands.

"If your name wasn't Lannister you'd be scrubbing out Pots in the cooks tent."

Still staring. "Go!"

He finally leaves.

The girl comes along. And he smells the rich wine before she's even close. "Not wine." He says. "Water. We'll be here for some time." She nods, and moves to walk off. But he looks at her, stares at her closely, remembers her voice, now sees her clean features.

"Girl." He calls when she starts to walk away. She stops and turns to face him. "Where are you from?" He knows the answer already. Her accent is clear.

"Maidenpool." She answers quickly. A little too quickly. He wants to chastise her and tell her to stop lying. But he remembers this is the same girl that had dressed as a boy. _'Safer to travel.' _She said and she was right.

_Smart._ He's said. As smart as keeping quiet about where she was from in the middle of a southern army that isn't all too keen on Northerners right now.

He decides to play her little game, tedious as it might be. She's certainly to provide more engaging conversation than the men at the table. "My lord." She adds after a moment.

He smiles just for a second. "And who are the lords, of Maidenpool. Remind me." He doesn't need a reminder. He knows every house in Westeros from small to large by memory.

"House Mooton." She answers. She at least knows that much.

"And what is their sigil?" A more difficult question. And he sees her stop, like an animal suddenly discovering a predator, she freezes.

"A red, salmon." He answers. "I think a Maidenpool girl would remember that."

She looks away.

"You're a northerner aren't you?"

She nods, and he can see the unease there. She hides it well, but she's afraid for her life.

_Smart._

"Good. Now one more time where are you from?"

"Barrowtown my lord. House Dustin." He feels himself smiling a bit as she recites their sigil, though the reason escapes him.

Still, he decides to cut to his point. The reverence Robb Stark is regarded with in the North. "And what do they say of Robb Stark, in the North?"

"They call him the young wolf-" She starts, and he looks to the faces of his men as she recites one by one all the fables and legends and minstrels fancies that are told about their enemy.

This is not a boy that will bend the knee, this is not an army that will have their spirit broken by a single event or setback. This is a very real danger.

"-they say he can't be killed." She's smiling by the end of her little speech.

"And do you believe them?" He asks, half laughing himself.

"No my lord."

The girl says what she thinks he wants to hear. _Smart._

"Anyone can be killed."

He pauses looks at her, and he sees that message in her eyes clear as day, sees the loathing there brimming just beneath the surface.

She hides it well but he can still see it.

"Fetch that water."

* * *

><p>Once more he has an imbecile sitting infront of him like a slack jawed jester.<p>

He holds the girl back from pouring his wine before glaring again at Amory Loch. "Can you _read?_" He repeats, trying to emphasize the word as much as he can.

Loch swallows.

He looks to the men around the table. Perhaps he should make them aware of the situation? In-case they suffered literacy problems like Ser Amory "This letter, detailing our infantry movements was meant for Lord Damon of house Marbrand." He pauses, looks at Ser Amory again and he hopes the man can see just how angry he is. Because if he proves innept even in that may the seven gods smite him now before he proves himself anymore useless. "It was sent, to lord Marlin of house Dormond."

He's hasty in his apology, and Tywin cuts him off before he can say some excuse or other. "Girl, fetch me the history of the Greater and the Lesser Houses its the one on the-" He pauses, watching as the girl quickly grabs the massive tome off the desk, grunting under its weight as she brings it over.

Tywin is so taken aback he actually allows a laugh to escape him.

Then his fury returns, and he glares at Ser Amory as the girl places the book down. "My cupbearer can read better than you."

He opens the book, finding the house and pointing it out for Ser Amory. "To whom, does house Dormond owe allegiance?"

Amory leans forward and seven saves him he's starting to believe the man actually cant read judging by how he squints at the letter. "My lord...I-"

"To the _Starks of Winterfell!"_ He shouts. "Who have twenty thousand men and my _**son!**_"

He shuts the book with a sneer on his lips. "I judged that you were good for something more than brutalizing peasants.

He calls the girl over. "I see I overestimated you."

He leans forward, smelling the stink of sweat and old stale beer on Loch. "If you ever risk my son's life again I'll..." He stops himself, the words choking him before he jerks his head to the door. "Leave."

The girl is at his side, staring up at him, wide eyed and nervous. "Put the book away girl."

She puts down her sieve of wine, marching after wards to the book and picking it up. Its granted him a second to breathe, for his fury to simmer down. He looks to the girl, a small smirk finding its way to his lips. "Perhaps we should have you plan our next battle strategy." He sees her smile, almost delighted at the praise. He smiles too, his smiles are rare and his complements less so.

What does it say that she's been able to drag more out of him in just a handful of weeks than his generals have been able to do in years.

He mentally snorts. Maybe she _should_ plan their next battle strategy.

The guard announces Peter Baelish.

And its only later, after the talks are done and he's considering the information Baelish has given him and he's contemplating Robb Stark and Stannis and how to deal with everything that something hits him.

_'My cupbearer can read?_

* * *

><p>And when he puts the pieces together; Tywin Lannister is almost brought to roar in laughter like Robert Baratheon.<p>

He's never met Arya Stark. But he does know Ned, and he met lady Lianna long ago.

Northern features, he'd thought.

She _is_ the north.

Safer to travel as a boy, she'd said.

_Smart_-

He'd answered.

This time he did chuckle. That had been an understatement if he'd ever heard one.

A cupbearer who could read.

She'd spilled wine on Baelish, it was the first time she'd slipped up, even a little. And now that he recalled she always had tried to keep her face averted from the man.

A million plans rushed through his head and were discarded just as quickly. Robb Stark was no fool, he would not be drawn into a trap with his sister drawn as bait, and men would not follow a leader who had to use a girl, not even flowered to win his battles for him.

He found her in the War room, still cleaning out plates, still scrubbing. One would never know that she was high born. She did not complain, she did not hiss or tear or groan with aches at her work.

She worked like she was born for it. Did that say something about her skills outside of ladies tasks, or of her ability to lie?

He stepped forward. "Who taught you to read?"

"My father, my lord." she answers. And he wonders if its true, or if it was her septa, or her Maester.

He wonders if Ned Stark was like him. Sitting at a table with his children. "I taught my son Jamie to read." He confessed, smirking. "Maester came to me one day...told me he wasn't learning. Couldn't make sense of the letters. He'd reverse them in his head." She keeps her eyes on him as she works, deft hands picking up cups and dirty plates.

"The Maester said he'd heard tell of this affliction, and that we simply must accept it." He removed the part that he'd had that Maester dismissed from Casterly Rock and requested another from Oldtown. She didn't need to know that really.

He laughs with his memories, looking at the girl who stares back up at him with those big eyes. He has the widest smile on his face, one that no one had seen for a long time. "After that-" He says smugly. Proudly. "I sat Jamie down for four hours everyday...until he learned." He wonder's if dour Ned Stark would do the same for his children or simply accept the Maester's words.

Judging by Robb Stark alone, Tywin Lannister can definitely see the Winter Wolf sitting down with his cubs to make their minds as sharp as any blade...hell, he doesn't even need to look at Robb Stark. This girl in front of him is enough of a testament. A little high born girl...making her way from King's landing to Harrenhall, un-raped, unspoiled and alive...He doesn't know whether its a testament to her skills or his soldier's exclusive lack of it.

_Smart._

He takes in a breath. "He hated me for it...for a time." He laughs once more. "A long time. But he learned."

He straightens. "Who was your father? Is he alive?"

She hesitates, and sees something pass through her eyes. They glaze, leaving the room for a moment before she returns, shaking her head and now he knows for certain.

"Who was he?"

"Stone mason."

And Tywin lannister can almost see it, methodical, careful, honest Ned Stark, a stone mason. The work would suit him.

"A stone mason who can read?" He asks, raising an eyebrow.

"He taught himself." She says. And he has to admit she's quick on her feet. Barely a stutter on that one.

He gives an appreciative humm. "Quite a man." He pauses...wondering how she would answer this. "What killed him?"

And she fades away for a moment again, and when her words come its probably the only honest thing she's really said in a long time.

"Loyalty."

He smiles, just a bit. "You are a sharp little thing aren't you?" _Arya Stark._

He turns away.

"Did-"

He pauses, turns back to look at her, but she's already averted her eyes, returned them to the table. "Forgive me my lord I shouldn't ask questions."

"No..." He says. _Not if you want to better keep up this lie. _"But you've already begun." _'And I already know.'_

She looks up, blinking those big eyes. "Did you know your father? My lord?"

Its a surprising question, but he nods. "I did." He walks away, closer to the hearth. "I grew up with him. Watched him grow old." He says the last word as he eases back into his chair, his joints aching. And realizes that he feels old himself.

"He loved us." More than he loves his own children truth be told.

"He was a good man." A stupid man as well, who let his bannermen laugh at him in their cups and behind closed doors. "A weak man." He sighs.

"One who nearly destroyed our house and name." He wonders if Ned Stark's children will resent him in the future should he win. Should he finally drive the young wolf back and pull the House Stark from its seat of power, demote them to lesser lords and name someone else Warden of the North.

They might...but the love they bear their father is no doubt greater than the love his children bear for him.

"I'm cold." He says and he's not sure if it really is the night air or something else that brings the sensation.

"I'll get some more wood for the fire." She answers.

* * *

><p>He sends off Greagor Clegane with his orders.<p>

He turns, sees the girl, two steaming plates infront of her, for him most like. "Is that mutton?" He asks.

"It is my lord." She looks up at him still with those big dark, Stark eyes.

"I don't like mutton." He lies.

She looks uncertain, eyeing the food before she answers. "I'll bring something else."

"Leave it." He orders as she begins to lift the plate.

He marches forward, "You hungry?"

"No"

"Of course you are." _You're a high born girl who's never lacked for food a day in her life. _"Eat."

She looks at the food, and there's hope shining in her eyes but she's unsure. Still cautious.

_Smart._

"I'll have something in the kitchens later."

"It's bad manners to refuse a Lords' offer." He says, marching around her and picking up the knife.

"Sit." She does so.

He hands her the knife. "Eat." She takes it.

"You're small for your age." He comments. "Suppose you've been starved half your life?" _'Or it feels that way to you.'_

But her hunger takes the better of her, and she has her mouth stuffed with mutton and potatoes and gods above only know what else.

Still, he can understand her. Another slip. "I eat a lot. I just don't grow."

"Hmm." He nods, and can't help but think Tyrion would have something to say to that.

He turns, walks the length of the room to peer out to Harrenhall through the fissured opening of the wall.

He doesn't know why he says it, but he does.

"This will be my last war...win or lose.

"Have you ever lost before?" She asks. And he knows that tone.

Hopeful. She want's the answer to be yes.

He turns, he's never been one to sugarcoat the truth. "You think I'd be in my position if I'd lost a war?"

She turns away, bringing her attention back to her mutton.

He looks back out across this cursed castle.

"This is the one I'll be remembered for." And its the truth. "The War of Five Kings, the commoners call it. My Legacy will be determined in the coming months." _My families legacy...your families legacy._

He turns to look at her, and sees her jerk back to look at her mutton. "Do you know what that means? Legacy?"

She shakes her head, he doesn't think this one is a lie.

"It's what you pass down to your children. And your children's children. Its all that remains of you, after your gone." _'Do you know what your father's legacy is girl?'_

He nods to the walls around him. "Harren the Black thought this castle would be his Legacy."

He makes his way over to the fire. "Greatest fortress ever built. Tallest towers. Strongest walls. The great hall had thirty-five hearths..." He pauses, looks at the fire infront of him before turning to face the girl.

"Thirty-five can you imagine?" He has trouble imagining it. Casterly Rock's great hall holds ten, and its twice the size of the Red Keep's throne room. "Now look at it...a blasted Ruin." He makes his way closer to the table. "Do you know what happened?"

"Dragons." She answers, eager, smiling.

"Yes." He answers, smiling back. He pours himself some wine, letting her keep eating. "Harrenhall, was built to withstand an attack from the land." He sits. "A million men can be hurled here...and a million men would be repelled." Again, his imagination doesn't stretch that far. He has eighty thousand men, and its nearly impossible to manage them.

He isn't sure any man alive could manage a million.

"But an attack from the air...with Dragonfire." He shakes his head, looking at her interested face. "Aegon Targaryen changed the rules. '_As I've done. As your brother is doing, winning every battle that's come his way.'_ That's why every child alive still knows his name, 300 years after his death."

"Aaegon _and his sisters._"

He pauses in his drink. "Hmm?"

"It wasn't just Aegon. It was Rhaenys and Visenya too."

He's not used to being corrected. But she is right. He smiles again. "Correct." He complements. "A student of history are you?"

She smiles, and looks off at some part of the wall. "Rhaenys rode Meraxes." She says. "Visenya rode Rhaeghal."

He takes a breath through his nostrils, settling in his seat. "I'm sure I knew that when I was a boy."

"Visenya Targaryen was a great warrior." She continues, and there's that look all children have. When they speak of their idols. "She had a Valyrian steel sword called "Dark Sister."

He nods, chuckling somewhere in his throat. "She's a Heroine of yours I take it. Most girls are interested in the pretty maidens from the songs."

"Most girls are idiots." She shoots back so quickly and so assured that he finds himself letting loose a single bark of laughter.

"You remind me of my daughter." _Some of the better things at any rate. _"Where did you learn all this about Visenya and her Valerian steel sword."

"My father." She answers, and he wonders again if its a whole truth. That Ned Stark did sit down with his children to teach them in Winterfell.

By the fond recall in her eyes, he judges it to be so.

He nods. "He was a well read stone mason. Can't say I've ever met a _literate _stonemason."

She turns to him, and there's a moment of impetuousness in her face as she speaks in an all too innocent tone. "Have you met many Stonemasons my lord?"

He raises his eyebrow, feels his smile get a little wider. Its been too long since anyone has gotten _cheeky_ with him. "Careful now girl. I enjoy your wit. But careful."

She smiles.

"Take that back to the kitchen. Eat what you want."

She gets up to leave, taking the mutton with her.

"Girl."

She stops, and looks to him.

His smile turns just the faintest bit predatory. "Milord."

She stares at him. He explains.

"Lowborn girls say, 'Milord' not My lord."

She freezes, and there's that fear again. He sees it like a flash. She masters it quickly.

"If you're going to pose as a commoner you might as well do it right."

She straightens, squares her shoulders, and if he didn't know he never would see the lie on her face. "My mother served lady Dustin for many years, _My lord._ She taught me to speak proper."

She '_catches' _herself. "_Properly!_"

He smiles, narrowing his eyes just a bit. "You are far too clever for your own good. Has anyone told you that?"

She smiles. "Yes."

"Go on." She turns, and he sees the sag of relief in her shoulders. She's good but she still has a few things to learn.

* * *

><p>And its only long after he's mounted his horse, Lance, ready to ride through the night to reach King's landing, after warning the rabid dog that is Clegane that no harm must come to the girl in one of his fits, that he finds himself waiting infront of the doors to the throne room, a note in hand as he reads a report, eight men found dead at their posts, his cupbearer missing, along with the Blacksmith boy and the cookboy that Tywin Lannister finds himself smiling.<p>

He had dismissed the thought that the girl had something to do with Ser Amory's death, she was clever, but that had been a profesional, well trained assassin, and her only friends were a cookboy and a Blacksmith as big as Robert Baratheon in his youth.

He handed the missive back to the grand Maester as the doors opened, trotting through the doorway and through the crowd on Lance's back.

If the girl could hide an agent like that, maybe it was him that had more to learn.

And he wonders, as he accepts Joffrey's naming him King's hand, on what the future will bring.

He's having trouble with Robb Stark, more than he'd like truth be told. But he cant help his curiosity, wondering what will happen if he should slay Stark, now that his two younger brothers are missing and the lady Sansa is their prisoner.

Will a smart girl, who dresses like a boy, can bear cups like any squire, can lie better than either Varys or Baelish and has a mind for reading and history, appear years from now? North? In Winterfell?

Will she strap a sword to her side of normal steel? Or Valyrian Steel? Will she call in her Banners and march south? Will she declare herself queen and ride into battle on the back of a Giant Direwolf?

Tywin Lannister half wishes for such a thing to happen, half dreads it, because if it should then she can rightly call him a liar.

Because should that happen, and should he live to see it the war of five kings will not be his last war after all.

* * *

><p>There were alot of things I liked in Season 2. Alot of things I didn't like.<p>

First, things I liked.

If it wasn't obvious already the Tywin Arya scenes were a highlight for me. Whenever they showed up I always leaned a little closer to the screen. The portrayal of Tywin from the books is a bit different but I like the Tywin of the TV series more, I can level with the guy.

Next thing I like, the actress chosen for Brienne. She definitely fits the description phisically, she's just as awkward and naieve as portrayed in the books. Long and short, she fits the role to a bloody T

The Actress for Ygritte is another great performance.

And Davos Oh god, Davos Seaworth. I didn't think one of my favorite characters could get any more bad ass but there it was.

Robb Starks new love interest. Much more interesting than Jeyne Westerling I think

Shae's new role that's closer to Sansa Stark than the book, definitely something that was handled well.

Now, things I didn't like.

Asha Greyjoy's actress and portrayal. Asha has always been portrayed as loud, boisterous, proud and unafraid to make a scene. But in the TV series the actress, who works on the sun baked surface of a ship all day is paler than Jon Snow up north of the wall, she doesn't _look_ like a seafarer at all and she's colder than Tywin Lannister (book version) Asha raged at Theon and didn't give two shits who heard her when she arrived at Winterfell, she didn't sit at the long table with her feet propped up and glare at him while speaking with the emotional level of a porcelain teacup.

Melisandre's actress, I really get the idea. She's a priestess, preaching a new religion, you have to give her a bit of zeal. But it seems like the actress and the script are trying a little TOO hard for my tastes.

Stannis. I get it, Stannis is a difficult actor to portray anything even remotely resembling human emotion. One can only read the "grinding of teeth" in the book before realising that's his true expression, and last I checked it was difficult to show that on TV. But still, if you're gonna have such a limited role like that, you might as well put an actor that can at least deliver a strong physical presence when you have such limitations. Which I don't believe his actor has.

Anyway, I wrote up this oneshot because Tywin's portrayal in Season 2 and his interaction with Arya is freakin brilliant, and I really did get the impression that Tywin knew who she was there. So here's my interpretation.


	5. Northbound wind

The wind is at her hair. The currents running through the Trident carrying her longboat forward with all haste, the wind almost mootly adding to their speed as her men work the deck.

What a _royal _fuck this has become.

Robert Baratheon dead, Ned Stark dead, Stannis Baratheon burning the seven on Dragonstone, Renly surrounding himself with flowers, the North marching down to butcher Lions, the Lions going everywhere to butcher everyone else.

Again...

What a _royal _fuck this has become.

Still, one thing had undoubtedly put a smile on her fathers face when it all came crashing down.

Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark dead.

She had only seen both men once, and that was at the end of the siege of Pyke as they'd been deciding weather to take the son or the daughter. Robert was a giant in steel plate, with a hammer that had a head bigger than hers, and Ned Stark had been a solemn quiet specter, draped in dark colors, boiled leather and mail. With a greatsword that lived up to its namesake. As tall as Ned Stark himself. She remembered thinking that he must have been stronger than even Robert, since he could lift the thing with one hand.

Though she did remember some sadness to him, or at least, she thought she did. Memory was funny sometimes.

Her first instinct had been to sail home, see what her father would do if they would keep going business as usual, if he would throw his lot in with someone, or, more likely, ignore everyone altogether.

Pyke had very few friends in the greenlands. Her father had no reason to aid any of them and they even less so to call on him.

But this was just too exciting to pass up for her.

It was a _war_. And by the look of things rising up to be a real bloody one at that.

So of course as she'd been finished stocking up on supplies and her men had rightly fucked every cheap whore in Lannisport to confirm from the grapevines between the legs of said whores that her brother was marching with Robb Stark's Banners, she circled around the coast and made her way down the Trident to reach Robb Stark's army.

Her father might be angry but not so much she would think. She did so _miss _her _**darling**_ brother.

Still first things first. "Quarl!" She shouted, seeing the man turn to face her, a quirk of his brow easily showing just what he thought she called him for.

She smiled. Later perhaps. "Hoist the colours and get up here when your done." She decided to tease him a bit. "Got something of a job for you."

* * *

><p>Jamie Lannister kneels before him, bruised, battered, but not lacking for confidence.<p>

"Lord Stark." He drawls. "Lady Stark."

"Kill him now Robb." Theon snarls his sword still drawn. "He killed nearly a dozen of ours on the field you saw it."

"You might want to listen to the lad." The Kingslayer smiles.

His face is grim, staring down at the oathbreaker who killed both of Lord Karstark's sons right infront of him before he finally mutters.

"Take him away."

The Greatjon and Theon move to do as he says when Jamie suddenly rises to his feet. "We can end this right here and now boy!" He says, challenging. "No one else has to die. You fight for the Starks, I fight for the Lannisters."

He stares at him, stares at him for a long time, and sees the confidence billowing there, just beneath the surface. Jamie _knows_ he will win. Knows it as surely as he knows the sun will rise in the east tomorrow.

"If we do it your way Kingslayer..." That confidence brims. Certain that he'd taken the bait. Just a boy he says to himself now. Just a boy who thinks he's invincible.

"-you'd win." He says instead, and the frustration is evident behind that smiling veneer. "We're not doing it your way."

He looks to Theon, and to the Greatjon. "Take him away."

They grab him, haul him to his feet. They're not gentle..

Footsteps, behind him. He turns, so do the other men, swords half drawn.

Its only a scout, one of theirs. He looks startled, giving a quick glance at the half drawn swords then glances at him. "Milord, you'll want to see this!"

* * *

><p>They tie the ropes and haul the longboat onto the rocky shore, she feels the sway of water give way to solid ground, hears the snaps of the colors raised high up on the mast.<p>

Its not much longer after that.

They see the standard first of course. A big white Direwolf on a grey canvas. She smiles a bit to herself as they stand out there like scarecrows. Blinking owlishly. She half wonders if she's gonna have to send her men out there herself before someone else arrives, on horseback.

He's young, got a Tully look to him and they way every single one of the greenlanders turns to him tells her immediately who he is.

"And there's Robb Stark." She says. Before looking over to Quarl. "Lets get started then eh?"

Quarl smiles.

* * *

><p>The men haul the bothe onto the shore, pulling it with thich rope as they shore it onto the gravel of the rivers edge, lowering down the gangplank of the longboat and letting them step foot onto the Iron Born's least favorite ground.<p>

Dry land.

The horses plodded closer, with Stark at the head of the lot. She wondered if Theon was in this group. Her first guess would be to look for the stupid looking one.

"You must be...the young wolf. Robb Stark." Quarl said, smiling that disarming smile of his as he stared up at the riders. Though she could see he was really more concerned about the massive wolf pacing between the riders and the iron born.

"That's lord Robb Stark to you." A giant of a man responded, sitting on the back of an equally monstrous horse. Its color matching the man's dark boiled leather.

The young wolf held up his hand. A silent gesture demanding everyone's silence. "And you are Iron Born. Though I do not know your name."

"Quarl." Her sometimes lover said with his smile still firmly in place, though a blind man could see it was almost patronizing. "And this here is my crew."

The men grumbled, laughing to themselves at the unspoken joke between the lot of us.

The Stark Boy looked them over, she hears the wolf snarl, then she saw his gaze harden, those Tully eyes of his goin' fierce and angry, and with a single draw of his blade the whole lot of men, Ironborn and Greenlanders were drawing weapons.

The wolf snarls and snaps his jaws, barking and growling like a hound from hell, but its his voice that cuts through them like the winds of a blizzard. "Lie to me again, and it'll be the last words you'll speak in this world ser."

Quarl is tense, holding his blade at the ready. She has no doubt that her men could bloody up these green landers something fierce, on or off a boat. Even with that damn wolf. But she's not stupid, not knowing how many more men could be hidin' behind that tree line.

She claps.

The sound is more like a _whump_ with her gloves in place but it serves its purpose of drawing all eyes to her as she steps forward. "Well color me impressed." She says, pulling back her hood, as she smirks up at this green lander boy.

The giant man grows red in the face. "A woman? My lord, let me cut this lyin cunt's throat-"

"Greatjon." He snaps, silencing the man like the crack of a whip had just gone off. "She's not lying." He says before he dismounts his horse, much to his men's outraged surprise and protest.

He steps forward, staring at her dead in the eye though the boy's half an inch shorter.

"You're Asha Greyjoy." Its not a question, its a statement. The boy is sure of what he says.

Her smirk gets a little wider. "Well...color me impressed."

* * *

><p>"Father didn't send you here?"<p>

She picked her nails with her knife, her feet up on the surface of the table, staring at...Theon, with boredom and mild irritation.

She'd expected to feel something when she met her brother.

But all she really felt was annoyance at the utter lack of feeling he evoked.

Correction. She wasn't being completely fair. There was a moment of feeling vindictive triumph at the fact that her brother indeed was the stupid looking one.

And stupid wasn't limited to looks apparently as she repeated herself for the fourth time. "No. He did not send me here little brother. You can rest assured that my little visit was scheduled about as much as King Robert's death. Though I'm sure word will reach him in a few days.

Her brother's head shook, almost swiveling from side to side in flabbergasted disbelief. "So what exactly are you doing here?"

"In case you've forgotten little brother-" She drawled. "We are Ironborn. Our blood is salt and Iron. Over the years we've had plenty of salt..." She smiled, twirling the knife around her fingers. "But no iron."

Theon's face would have been comical if not so pathetic. It was Robb that caught her meaning first. "You came here to fight?"

She shrugged. "Father will want to sit on the isles and watch you and the Lannisters rip each other to pieces. He hates ya both equally. No offense Stark, but he probably pissed himself laughin' when he heard Robbert and Your Father were sent to meet the drowned god, or the old Gods or the seven or what have you."

Robb Stark's features tightened, it was subtle, but it was definitely there. Looks like she'd struck a nerve. She wondered just how honorable the honorable Ned Stark's son really was.

Just how far could she push eh?

She decided to push the conversation on however. "So, I came here to fight. And so here I am." She snickered. "The Iron islands send their wholesome regards with twenty of the most cut throat sons of whores to grace the seas, along with the sea bitch to lead em."

Before the conversation could be continued further however, one of the lords entered the tent, its flap allowing a chill breeze of night air to whisper through its cow hide protection. "My lord. The men have gathered."

Robb Stark stood without preamble, along with Theon, she did the same. If only not to stay seated.

"My lady, I will return shortly to continue speaking of thi-"

"You can return whenever ya want Stark, I'll be going with you now so it makes no difference. I want to see what you green-landers do when you plan how to fight without words."

His surprise was momentary. "My lady, we are not even sure yet if I'll let you join us-"

"What?" She interrupted with such audacity it made him clench his jaw. "You'd rather I go fight with the Lannisters?" She smirked, sauntering off towards where the pyre was being built for the lords of the north to gather and speak.

* * *

><p>"We can't pledge to Renly!" One man shouted over the chorus. "Rely is the youngest he must come after Stannis!"<p>

"You would have us pledge for Stannis when the only forces to his name are his own on Dragon Stone? Renly has all of Highgarden and the Reach at his back! Even the Lannisters are barely buying off enough mercenaries to match his numbers!"

Robb let them argue, listening to the differing, voices, opinions, arguments, accouterments and statements. Let the words wash over him. It was a difficult choice.

Honor told him what his duty was. That Stanis was the rightful heir to the throne.

His mind told him what the prudent choice was.

Renly.

To enter a war backing Stannis was to enter a war on two fronts, against the Lannisters, and against Renly's host of flowers.

To support Renly was to make a force of more than half of Westeros against the House Lannister. Dorne loathed the lions, and the Eerie was under the rule of his aunt. If the eagle were to move from its perch it would be in his favor.

He looked around to the faces in the crowd to the men and women that had marched south with him.

Theon, the Manderly's Karstark, Dacey Mormont, Dormond, Bolton. Every lord north of the neck had sent their hosts with him.

It was his duty to do what was best to get them back.

His eyes caught a smile in the crowd, turning their to find the Kraken's daughter seated just at the edge of the gathering, a cup to her lips as she drank, staring at him as though questioning what he would do.

It was the Greatjon's voice that thundered through the cacophony this time.

"My lords...**My Lords!" **He looked around, staring at each man there dead in the eye. "Here's what I say to these two kings!" Without preamble he spit into the ground at their feet, a string of saliva loosing itself in his beard as the men laughed at the outlandish statement.

"Renly Baratheon is _nothing _to me. Nor Stannis neither! Why should they, Rule over me and mine from some _flowery _seat in the south!?"

Robb could see his words. Could see where they were leading to, what they were doing, how the men were nodding in agreement and he found himself utterly powerless to stop it.

"What do they know of the Wall? Or the Wolfswood? Even their Gods are **wrong!**"

The men roared with laughter even as the Greatjon drew his massive sword. Pointing it straight towards Robb. "Here!" He roared. "Sits the only King I mean to bend my knee to!"

And as they roared out, with thunderous voices that drummbed the knight like the cry of some rising God _**"The King in the North, The King in the North, The King in the North!" **_Robb Stark felt his heart hammering in his chest, pounding against his ribs. Finding his mother staring wide eyed, as ser Rodrick chanted in muted awe at what had transpired in the span of a few minutes.

The only one who seemed oddly sane in this moment of rebellious lunacy that had swept them all and was rapidly becoming more than lunacy, more than a wild statement, and approaching the ventures of reality was the Kraken's daughter, the Sea Bitch laughing and cackling as though the world had opened all its treasures onto her lap.

* * *

><p>She found first blood at Oxcross.<p>

When they fell on the Lannister host, Asha's blood had sang, her legs ached with days of riding, her men complained, her lower back throbbed with the weight of her sword strapped across it, but the sound of those first screams of battle had surged an adrenalin through her the likes of which she hadn't known in a long while.

She was not the best at the back of a horse, no Iron born was, but she did ride, the hooves of the mount pounding into the dirt in time with her heart as the stillness of the night gave way to the bloodied chaos of battle.

She didn't need to be careful, didn't need to think, to look. The lannister men stumbled out of tents, half naked and disoriented while the Stark men were in organized ranks. The horse beneath her trampled straight into the camp, her sword swinging and hacking off heads and severing limbs.

The saddle straps snapped, or perhaps they were cut, it didn't matter, she still fell onto the hard packed earth.

Her shoulder screamed, the pain shooting through her limb, even as she rolled with the fall, getting to her feet, untangling herself from the saddle as she drew her axe, grinning like a madwoman. The horse beside her brayed in dismay, stomping its feet as it panicked, she edged away, blocking a wild swing of a soldier with her sword before burying her axe into his skull.

* * *

><p>He found her by morning light.<p>

She was awash of blood, laying over the red stained grass as though it were her own bed, eyes closed, a smile tugging at the right side of her mouth, her hands were clasped above her stomach.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

Her smile grew wider, eyes opening to stare up at him. "What's wrong boy? Never seen a real woman who didn't act like your green land court ladies?"

His head shook, almost minutely. "That's not an answer."

She pushed herself up, getting to her feet as she stretched, cracking her neck and rolling stiff shoulders. He spoke again. "Most of the men here want to go back home. Tend to their families. Their fields."

"We do not Sow." She recited her house's words. "If not fightin here I'd still be fighting somewhere. Across trade ships from the Narrow sea, gulley's and gibbet rafts. We're ironborn. And our blood is-"

"Salt and iron." He finished, almost sighing out the word, as though exasperated.

She raised an eyebrow, turning to face him. "What? You gonna pretend you don't like it just as much?"

"I don't. I lead my men and I do what I must for my...kingdom." He hesitated over the word, the title of 'Your grace' and all that implied therein still an unfamiliar notion.

"Do ya really?" Her smile was predatory, almost catlike. "I saw you getting your own hands bloody when the battle was joined last night. That wolf-o-yours has a taste for man blood too."

"You think I'll sit back and let my men fight my battles just because I don't like to fight?"

"Did the Mad King ride into the Trident? Did the Negotiator man the fortresses that protected the reach from Dorne himself?"

"The Mad King was craven and the Negotiator was always frail."

"And you're no frail craven hmm?" She smiled. "You want to get in there. Get your hands dirty, your blood rushin. Difference between us _Your Grace_ is that I ain't afraid of lettin people see that."

"Captain!"

She turned, Lorren Longaxe was huffin and puffing his way over, shouldering aside Stark men and damn near everything else as he came closer. "Captain." He panted. "Found Rolfe."

"Alive?" She asked, masking her trepidation. It wouldn't be the first time she'd lost men. Either by the sword or to the Drowned Gods halls out at sea, but she never liked it when it did happen.

"Aye." Lorren hawked up a wad of bloody phlegm. "Took an arrow to the knee though. All but useless for the next few months Maester's sayin. We'll have ta take him back ta the Black Wind.

She'd taken eight of her men, left four aboard the ship to guard her. Looks like now she was down to six. "I'll go see him soon. Tell Fingers he'll be getting on a horse soon to take im back."

"Aye Cap'n."

Before Lorren could walk off, the young wolf stopped him in his tracks. "You don't have to do that."

She turned, staring at this would be king of six and ten as he stared right back. "Your man can stay here under the Maesters care same as all our men."

She smiled. "We your men now Stark?"

He shrugged, swiveling on his heel as he walked away. "The offer stands, take it or leave it, there are things I must see to."

She looked back at Lorren, shrugging her shoulders. "You heard _the king_." She smiled sardonically, Lorren did so as well. "He can stay with the Maesters."

* * *

><p>They stormed The Crag.<p>

More ruin than fortress, its walls crumbling on the side that faced the sea, The Stark men rushed the walls with ladders, battered the gate with a ram, and climbed onto the battlements with the ferocity of the stark sigil.

Robb was one of the first over the wall.

So was Asha.

The fighting was brutal and close, men pressed against each other as they pushed and shoved atop the thin walkways that lined the walls, with many falling off to suffer broken limbs or necks.

Robb shoved a man back with his foot, getting enough room to swing his sword where the blade cleaved into the man's helmet, a rush of hot blood slipping through the metal visor and neck opening as he fell to his knees.

He kicked him off, shoving another distracted Westerling soldier with his shoulder. The man stumbled, one foot searching for purchase before he fell with a gut twisting tumble onto the wooden roof of the horse stables down below them before he slammed into the ground.

His men hurled themselves over the walls, beating back the Lannister bannermen, pushing the enemy away from their King as The Greatjon roared from the other side of the battlements _**"The King in the North!" **_The words taken up by every soldier as they fought their way atop the gate house with the Stark standard bearer tossing the Westerling Banner from its place, placing his own.

Robb looked, as the men turned and fled, as the Westerlings threw down their weapons and raised up their hands.

The walls were taken, the Courtyard was awash with blood and bodies.

And Asha stood there with a smirk on her face.

She spread her arms in a mocking, magnanimous gesture, shouting over the cacophony.

"The Crag is yours _Your Grace_!"

Then she raised her axe, and Robb felt himself tense, a spike of fear skewering him as she let fly.

And the weapon buried itself in the chest of an archer, his bow cluttering to the ground as he fell with a pained shout the arrow going wide of Robb, its intended target.

* * *

><p>They stayed at the Crag for a while.<p>

It was there that her dear nuncle finally found her.

The Iron victory came ashore with four other longboats, the Black Wind toed behind them. Victarion stepping onto the shore, in full armor, with the baneful Kraken helmet on his head.

She leaned on the broken battlements as the Stark men made ready for a fight and a welcoming simultaneously.

Honestly, greenlanders should learn to keep things simple.

Quarl walks up to her, whistling low. "Well looks like our trip is over."

She shrugged. "Looks like. Go get the boys. We'll be shoving off back to the islands soon."

Quarl nods.

Its not long before she's smiling up at her uncle, all feigned innocence and sweetness. 'Nuncle! You're here." She opens her arms and wraps him in an over exaggerated hug. Victarion's lips curl, sensing her sarcasm. Robb, his men, and Theon are right behind her, all looking on, wondering just where exactly this was going.

Ever to the point, Victarion pushes her off, and turns to Robb. "We've come here by order of Balon Greyjoy. Asha will be coming with us, immediately."

"Oh nuncle I'm hurt. Not even a hello? Even after I found-" She sauntered off to Theon, wrapping her arms over his shoulders. "my dear, long lost brother, your nephew that you've missed so much?" He snarled at her as she went to pinch his cheek."

Even she had to admit, that the utter lack of interest Victarion showed at the news could make anyone feel like they measured up to the importance of an earth-worm. He didn't even look at Theon. He just stared straight at her; glaring at her. All but cursing her for bringing him out here to drag her back.

Then, without another word, he turned. "Come."

The words _'Before I drag you' _were very nearly audible.

Asha scoffed to herself, smiling. She walked away from Theon around to face the Stark men, some of whom still looked rather flabbergasted at the quick departure of her dear nuncle.

Here some of them were hoping to discuss terms or some such.

She looked at Robb, who stared straight at her. She pulled out her axe, looking at it for a moment before tossing it to him.

He was visibly surprised when he fumbled to catch it, blushing in embarassment.

She laughed. "Just in-case you need me to save you from another Archer, _Your grace._

And with that last taunt Asha turned and left after her men, not even bothering to spare another glance at any of them.

She'd had her fun here.

* * *

><p>Well here you go.<p>

To be honest this one can go one of two ways.

Either A, I leave it here as is, with the "what if" scenario this has lain out since Robb isn't injured, he wont be "seduced" by Jeyne Westerling, no red wedding, Theon never left to the Iron Islands so no sacking of Winterfell and leave it up to your speculation on how it would play out.

Or B I can continue this into something resembling a Robb/Asha, friendship kinda thing and try to play out what I think would happen after these events and what would be different.

But this would be up to you readers. I'm gonna leave it up to a vote which I rarely do. But here I'm genuinely undecided on what would be best.


End file.
